


He lay dreaming

by Guixi



Series: The Eclipse of Morgan le Fay [2]
Category: Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: Angor Rot is also a Troll and human morality? what's that?, Angor Rot is not nice but not evil, Angst, Canon Divergence, Claire is guest-starred, Excerpts, Gen, Memories, OCs - Freeform, Set in the Moirai AU, Short Drabbles, Strickler is guest-starred, collection, there's going to be a lot of old timey dialgoue and world views
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-27 20:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13255902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guixi/pseuds/Guixi
Summary: Even Trolls may dream.





	1. Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is a short set of drabbles featuring a few of Angor Rot's memories intending to shape my ideas regarding his involvement of le Fay and will eventually help build a sequel to Moirai. This is set during said story, but is not necessarily required to read this as it can be standalone. This is just going to be a short little thing.

Angor Rot despised dreaming.

More often than not, it was simply his memories – something that spanned centuries, even before his long sleep – playing out before him as he remained an unwilling witness to something he'd already experienced. He'd tried to drown out his ringbearer's long-winded speech about his kind's oppression (he withheld a snort: Strickler knew _NOTHING_ compared to the servitude he had done) and it seemed the changeling bore him enough to make him drift off into a state of sleep. Not that one could tell; his eyes remained opened, if dim. He never truly lost awareness of what was going on around him.

He thought perhaps his mind would be merciful. He saw the endless rolling hills of Devnya, before the humans had stripped the land of it's bounty. The expanse of cliffs, the wind sifting through the fields like a hand through a silk cloth. He inhaled deeply and for once he thought he could taste the touch of salt in the sea-breeze air or the quarry of a hunt skipping away. He dared to let his vision be clouded; guard lowered enough to reminisce so precisely of the past – until he remembered, and it crashed down on him like the fist of Gunmar.

He was on the hunt, yes. Not for an animal or in competition of his kind. But for a Troll.

Angor pictured the look of serene exhaustion chiselled onto Deya's face as perfectly as the moment he'd crossed it. The light had never quite extinguished from her yellow eyes, despite the fact that she knew, in that kind of forlorn acceptance that her time had come. If she'd ever expected to fall by his hand – he didn't care to think. But she knew her duty to Trollkind had been served, and that she, after centuries, may rest. She greeted him quite like an old friend might; even though their species of Troll never saw eye to eye – a sort of peace was brooked when the threat of the Gumm-Gumms hung over them all.

“Rot,” she'd said, tired; almost pained yet not weak enough to stop a smirk curling around her tusks. Her voice was as sure as gravel, and just as rough. It infuriated – and fascinated – him how courageous she remained, even 'til her death. _For a cave-dweller_ , he adds, though it didn't damper his opinion, much. “Gunmar is sealed – but your village..”

“You're injured.” He can hear his own voice, even in this dream. An odd feeling he'd grown accustomed to. He knew every word in perfect clarity. His gaze skimmed down to where Deya nursed a severe cut into the under-mail armour, the other loosely gripping the sword of Daylight, using it more like a walking stick than a mighty weapon. “You will die if you do not get it treated.”

She gives him a mystifying look. It's hard to discern – a cross between scrutiny and amusement. An unfitting combination for someone whom walked their last mile. “Oh, I'm not afraid to face my greatest challenge yet,” she sighs, wincing as she adjusts her stony weight off from her limping leg. “I cannot say the same for you.” At Angor's affronted glare, Deya sighed. “That is why you are here, are you not?”

“I don't --”

“Playing coy never became you, Rot. You visited that blasted fae. The black magic that's filled the vacant hole where your soul should be fouls the air.” He said nothing under the intense burning gaze of the Deliverer. “You didn't come here to see how I fared. You came to finish the job whilst the world celebrates.”

“I'm sorry.” The words are alien for him to hear. There was a thousand things he wanted to say, then. Before he'd spent centuries killing, when he still could remember what it was like to feel whole. Perhaps it was because of that remembrance that he grew so angry at Deya's acceptance. He wanted her to fight him; to spit and scream and hurt him. Instead, she tugged the amulet off the breastpiece, the armour fading into daylight and waited.

“No, I should be.” she told him. “I could not save you, or your village fast enough.”

Those words haunted him even as he drove the dagger into her chest to pierce her living stone, killing as swift and efficiently as possible. He never felt any cathartic release from completing a hunt; merely a vacant nothingness where something should be. He stared at the amulet as it rest snugly in Deya's hand. He should've destroyed it when he had the chance, out there in the open fields undisturbed. He tried to recall why he did not – only to find himself blinking awake, grass replaced with neat, indoor carpet.

He discarded his ruined golem after a wrong flick of his wrist chopped it's head off, much to the confused, watchful eye of his ringbearer.

 


	2. Midday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories, a sort of momentary day-dream. Claire's presence makes Angor Rot remember a girl not too dissimilar to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so strange to write, which kinda helps with the dream-like feel I want with these drabbles.. I'm very much a stickler (heh heh, Strickler -- ) for Canon so diverging quite egregiously with my own ideas feels.. odd. Hope it was a nice read in any case.

It wasn't until he left her garden did it dawn on him whom Claire Nuñez reminded him of.

It was so obvious in hindsight, thinking of her. So caught up in his schemes and manipulations that it hadn't occurred to him until calling her huntress had came oh so natural to him. The flooding of his memories came like a crack of seeping water; once one trickled in, the rest broke the dam and drowned him. Angor Rot was by no means nostalgic for a time he loathed; as any day – any second spent slaving away for his dark mistress was tainted like the very magic she wielded.

He didn't blame himself that it took so long to draw the conclusion. The girl was – younger, than Claire, with the softness in her face that youth offered her, belying the truth of her allegiance. Her hair once a vivid sheen of chocolate brown, only to have the tips whiten as colour seemed to drain away from her. Angor saw the sprightly thing thin out into a pale imitation of a young lady, becoming nothing more than a tall, pallid corpse shambling her way through into adulthood. She'd made it to seventy-six – practically unheard of at that time – until her untimely passing at the hands of a Trollhunter he'd dispatched too late.

Ah, but it was her girlhood that struck him as so similar to the one whom the Shadowstaff now doted upon. He cast his mind back, far, _far_ back, trying to recall a name – and when he did; he spoke it aloud.

“Betrys.” _**Yes**_.. that was it. Betrys of Colwyn – year 1501, daughter of a blacksmith and acolyte of le Fay. A pretty flower, but entirely unassuming and easy to pass over. She made excellent prey for Morgan's pleas, manipulating the girl easily to her cause with a few soft, honeyed words and a face of a mother that the child lacked. A dogged grin threatened to spread across his lips as he remembered how Betrys' face dipped in concentration and was a splitting image of Claire's furrowed focus.

He slipped into a silence as he leaned into his bark perch of the trees, letting his mind wander.

Betrys' lacked the caution the Young Artemis had, unfortunately. She'd always make some excuse to her working father to leave the shop, creep to the outskirts of the village and sneak off into the woods to call for him. Angor Rot never cared much for the acolytes the eldritch queen inducted, but he was compelled to care and assist them as she ordered. If one called for him, he must answer. He'd waited in the tree tops, watching her brown eyes dart everywhere in case she was followed before softly cupping either side of her mouth and whispering; “ _Angh_? Angor!”

And he'd wait still. Wait until he saw disappointment start to crawl across her perky face, washing away her hope and excitement. Then, he slipped from the branches silently, barely a leaf crushed underfoot when he landed. She hadn't even noticed he'd dropped until she gazed back around to call for him again – pausing, before her face morphed into delight. He wondered if it would do the same if she knew there was only strong magic that bound him from snapping her neck.

“Angh!” she cheered, delicate, pudgy hands that worked a callus worth of days enveloping his heavy bracer. She seemed positively full of energy, hopping up and down on her heels without a want or a care in the world that the one nice dress she may have possessed was getting it's hem all dirtied on the forest floor. In any case, Angor Rot never understood the girl's obsession with him then; only in introspective reflections did he realise that she may have considered him a _friend_.

What a horrifying thought.

“Speak, before your incessant bobbing attracts the wolves.” his tone's not as harsh as it could've been and even his abrasiveness does little to damper her sunniness. She had much energy – she lasted longer than most when feeding Skathe-Hrün. He tugged his arm away, but often lowered to a seat or a crouch to be more at eye-level with her.

The girl complied, balled hands settled on her hips; head raised and chin jutted outward as she was about to make a grand statement. “Where's my gift?” she demanded. Had the Troll possessed eyebrows, they would've raised in a rare moment of utter surprise. His lack of an answer only served to make Betrys huff.

“I do not think you have done anything worthy to warrant a gift, child.”

It was a feeling of distant amusement yet incredible annoyance he felt watching her roll her great big eyes to the heavens, like it was _**she**_ whom was so greatly inconvenience to deal with him rather than the other way around. At the time, he did not know if it was bravery or sheer ignorance. It was likely the latter; coupled with a kid's comprehension. She, at the very least, finally decided to explain herself.

“I am no child, not anymore!” she said, sniffing petulantly and _very_ childishly. “I have had my first blood. I'm a woman now. I thought I was dying at first.. but Dafina – she told me it is our curse to bear. Did.. Mother le Fay put this on me? Why would she curse us? I felt so much pain, but then it went away..”

_Ah_.

There was no true mother for the girl to rely on, no elder sibling. But he spoke, not for any care of her woes or the disgusting biology of humans, but to subtly continue to mould her towards the goals of the enchantress. The closest comforting gesture Angor Rot had ever offered in his long centuries of living was given to her in the form of a small pat on the head as he guided for her to join him at the large root of the tree he reclined against. “Shh. Do not speak of her name, you know how dangerous it is. The villagers would not understand. They are jealous.”

Betrys nodded, quietened and chided. He continued; “She has not cursed you. She would never want to hurt you so.” Each word felt like poison leaving his lips and the girl more than happily soaked it up, eagerly listening. It was sickening, if only because of his own hatred for le Fay. “But this is indeed worthy of.. a _gift_. You are of age now to start learning how to act like a lady, the kind your.. _**mother**_ wants you to be.”

He reached behind him, ignoring the fact that she tried to peer behind his tall form to see what he had. The hilt of Skathe-Hrün hummed silent in his hand, yet when it was passed into the expecting hands of the vibrant, young girl, it shuddered with the feast of fears yet to devour. The staff formed, and Betrys, wide-eyed and gaping, gently ran her finger along the petrified bark.

“This is a very special gift,” Angor told her, watching her appraise the staff with renewed excitement. “You cannot show anyone this staff – they won't understand.”

“Not even Dafina?”

“ _ **Nobody**_ ,” he firmly said. He rather not have to go through the troubles of finding another girl that would bend to Morgan's will, as much as he did not care for the safety of this one. “You will come here every night once the moon is at it's zenith to begin your training. You want mother to see how much you've grown up, don't you?”

Had she been more aware, the way she beamed so happily would have cast a fanatical light. Betyrs gave a few swings of the staff, utterly unskilled and unlike Claire's deft hand, but she was young yet and was steadfastly involved into becoming a good 'daughter' for her 'mother'. Angor Rot watched her, resisting the urge to curl his lip into a snarl, eye twitching slightly at how she mishandled such a powerful artefact. But, it's purpose was not to be used – not yet. Now all that was needed was a great tragedy to begin the process.

His prayers were answered. He recalled, thinking back on the memory, how nicely things fit into place then. If only she knew he planned to assassinate her father to kick-start her spiralling journey down into despair, the very essence of which that powered dark magic. How her face twisted from beguiled awe to thoughtful pause – and to an eventual glumness as the staff lowered, half pushed towards him for him to take back.

“I can't,” she morosely muttered. “I was already betrothed to a gentleman. I won't be able to find the time any more to come visit you, let alone try and see Mother..”

Angor could tell by her look that she expected him to get angry and was surprised to find that he merely soothed. She, however, could not pick up on the mocking lilt his tone took; “I understand, little huntress. I have never had anything less than your best interests in mind.”

It was in her wailing anger that she resembled Claire's vitriolic tone of a huntress scorned. Her look of abject horror was a highlight when she'd came to the woods, seeking him out past sundown and at first, she'd been pleasantly surprised to find him waiting for her. Less so when he'd tossed the decapitated head of her betrothed at her feet. Oh, she'd howled and cried tears she'd never had to shed before, all accumulating into spluttering, red-faced hatred for him. All the while Skathe-Hrün was in her possession, silently feeding off her mounting agony.

“I hate you!” she'd screamed, uncaring of the wolves, or whoever heard her. “I never want to see you again!”

“You don't have a choice,” he simply said, words that echoed no matter what century he was in, past or present. “Unless you prefer to have your father and yourself hung, you must come with me and _learn_.”

* * *

 

She did learn, eventually. Over the years, her childlike fascination with him dwindled into a bitter spite for not only him, but to Morgan le Fay. She grew to resent the both of them and whilst that made for potent magic; it did not make her a reliable acolyte. She refused the gifts the enchantress wished to bestow on her and made the last few decades of manipulation to ultimately be pointless. Angor Rot had hoped by the turn of the century that the fae would realise the futility in trying to escape and finally grant him the eternal rest he so desired but yet –

Here he was, in a modern day that would soon be ancient history to look back upon, with a new acolyte and a new era. Yet.. history was _not_ on repeat; not after Merlin's blasted amulet chose James Lake Jr. Perhaps, after all these years: Claire Nuñez will be the one Morgan le Fay seeks.

He pitied her.

 


End file.
